Force of Nature
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: Prince Arthur survives the illness that Historically killed him and leads a quiet, peaceful life with Catherine of Aragon. However, all that is brought to an end by the death of Henry VII; the young couple find themselves plunged into a world of betrayal, intrigue and subterfuge. A world in which their nearest and closest relatives cannot be trusted. Re-write of my first fanfic.
1. Where the Wild Winds Blow (Intro)

**Plot Summary:** Having survived the contagion that Historically killed him, Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, and his wife Catherine of Aragon, live a quiet and peaceful life in rural Wales, at Ludlow Castle. It's a tranquillity that's torn asunder by the death of King Henry VII. Over-night, Arthur and Catherine find themselves plunged into a world of intrigue, subterfuge and betrayal; even by those they loved the most. Will they survive the turbulence of sudden and dramatic change? Or will the duplicitous nature of early Tudor England pull them under?

**Author's Note:** If this looks familiar to many, that's because it is. It's a re-write of my first ever attempt at a fan fic, published over two years ago now. The original was getting numerous hits every day, even the occasional review being left; but having taken a second look at the story itself, it is in desperate need of re-writing to smooth out the frankly embarrassing errors, purple prose and plot problems. So that's what I'm doing and I apologise for not contributing anything new.

* * *

**Chapter One: Where the Wild Winds Blow (Introduction).**

Catherine awoke with a start, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs and her breath coming in short rasps. It was still early, but she was alert now as she ever was during the day. The dreams always did that to her. Every time it was the same: she would find herself back on the ship that sailed her to England, all those years ago. The iron grey seas swelling, pitching the boat as if it were nothing but a driftwood raft, a toy for the elements. The dreams were so vivid she could almost smell the vomit and rotting fish hanging in the air, a foetid stench that made her stomach convulse. As soon as it got to the part where the Priest read them their last rites; just when Catherine thought that she would slip into the tempest torn waves and drown, she awoke sweating and panting, like at that moment.

But it was over now, she was back in the land of the living. Or, as she looked down at the form of her sleeping husband, the almost living. Arthur's chest rose and fell in time to his gentle snores, a stray lock of raven dark fringe that fell across his nose fluttered whenever he exhaled. She couldn't see them at that moment, but he had eyes of purest blue, like sapphires. He was tall and slender, but prone to being pale. He often looked ill, but that was just his natural pallor. It didn't mean anything, but people who mattered commented on it. Especially when comparing him to his brother, the Duke of York. Prince Henry was robust, energetic and a real force of nature. Even when she and Arthur married, it was Henry who stole the show. It was to that magnetic ten year old that all heads turned.

Catherine pushed those memories to the back of her mind. She had barely seen the Prince since that day, almost eight years ago. He would be seventeen now, and no doubt with the world at his feet, even if he didn't get to be King. He could be married off to some unimportant foreign noblewoman as soon as her father in law was in his grave. A Spanish noblewoman if Catherine got her way.

With her nerves back in balance, and it not yet time to rise, Catherine eased herself back down into bed, nestling her head in the crook of Arthur's shoulder. From there, she could listen to the rhythmic beat of his heart and the rush of the blue blood in his veins. It was a comfort to her: the April after they were married, he had fallen ill. The dreaded sweating sickness, and it affected many of them, even her. But mercifully, by divine intervention – of that Catherine was convinced – she and Arthur had survived. Some of their friends had not been so lucky. By September of that same year, she had become pregnant. By February of the new year, she had miscarried. Arthur had been good about it. He held her all through the night, not letting go and wiping away her tears for their child, the first of three that they would never know. Six years in, and she had still failed to provide him with an heir. He never said anything about it, all that mattered to him was Catherine herself. But sometimes, when people visited with their own children, she would watch Arthur play with them and an inexplicable guilt would close over her. If only she could give him that. If only she could do that simple, unthinking, thing that thousands of women did all the time, and deliver a healthy child. Sometimes, she wondered if she would feel better if Arthur did blame her - she would feel less guilty, at least.

Feeling her thoughts leading her down the path of her own black garden, Catherine snaps herself out of her reverie and blows a drawn out puff of air gently against the bare skin exposed at the throat of Arthur's nightshirt. He stirs, mumbles something incoherent, and tries to roll over, but fails to wake. With a small sigh, Catherine repeats her trick, until finally, his eyelids flutter open, revealing those clear sapphire eyes once more.

"Morning, husband," she trilled, smiling innocently. "I can't imagine what woke you so early."

He grunts a lazy snort of laughter. "You did," he replied, still heavy lidded and sluggish from sleep, "but I forgive you; I forgive you anything – and well you know it."

Catherine rolled over on to her front, and hoisted herself over Arthur, straddling him and looking down, teasing the collar of his night shirt wide open. He woke up a lot quicker, then, running his hands gently up her thighs, making her skin tingle.

"Are you well?" she asked, leaning down and cutting off his answer with a kiss.

When she draws back, he simply nods, tousling his hair further in the process. "Fine," he answered. But he still looked tired to Catherine.

The reports of his father's worsening condition had gotten to him. He was being propelled towards his destiny at a rate of knots, an unstoppable force that was intimidating to behold when you were caught in the middle of it. But Catherine thought he was like a bird learning to fly; he needed to have confidence in himself. He needed to know that if he would just spread his wings, the wind would catch him, and he would soar. But he needed to take the fateful leap himself. But, she resolved, she would give him a little push when he needed it.

He lay back, propped up on the pillows with his hands behind his head, just looking up at her, taking in every inch of her being. "Kiss me," he said, grinning impishly, meaning he wanted more than that. She was happy to oblige.

* * *

After Chapel, they dined together in their privy apartments. As always, Arthur proved himself to be his father's son, and kept his head bent over paperwork pertaining to the local common folk who's lives had just been swept away in heavy rainfall. Periodically, his quill would scratch against the paper as he scrawled his name, authorising the freeing up of emergency provisions to help those in need.

"Any word from Court amongst that lot?" asked Catherine, giving a nod to the stack of papers at his elbow.

Arthur looked up, glanced from Catherine to the papers. "Nothing," he answered. "There has been little since Henry last wrote, over two weeks ago now."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Him," she stated bluntly.

"He's my brother, Cate," he reminded her. "We must tolerate him as best we can. For what it's worth, I think he could make an able soldier. He's very athletic, and you know how the people love him. You know how people are so drawn to him."

Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "As their Duke of York, I suppose they do," she replied. "But you are their Prince of Wales, and they should love you more-"

"Well they don't," he interjected impatiently. "They're probably just waiting for me to die, so his Henry's golden hour may come. While we've been stuck out here in Wales, Henry has been winning hearts and minds all over England. And sometimes, I cannot help but think-"

"I know what you're going to say, Arthur," Catherine retorted, taking her turn to interrupt him. "But you're wrong. You are the next in line; nothing can change that. It is God's will and as such they have no option but to obey."

Arthur dropped his quill and pushed the paper work aside, giving her his full attention. "I don't think you understand," he began, "I don't want them to accept me as their King because it's God's will; I want them to accept me because I am the most able, the most competent and …" his words trailed off, his gaze dropped to his lap as though ashamed. "I want them to like me, Cate. I want them to want me."

At that, Catherine got up and rounded the table to close as she could to him. "There is no shame in wanting to be liked, Arthur," she explained, tilting his chin so he was looking at her. "Forgive me for speaking thus of your Father, but he is content to be feared rather than liked. He may not care whether his people love him, any more. But that is rather unusual in any person, and it's not as admiral a trait as he seems to think it is. You will show compassion where he feels none; you have clemency where he has been unjust. You will, at least, have the pleasure of spending all his money!"

They both laughed, falling into each other's arms as they did so. "That is true," he had to concede. "Since mother died, father just has not been the same. It's like she took all of his goodness with her. Not even Grandmother Beaufort has escaped his taxes now. He made her give up some of her properties in Somerset to the Crown."

Catherine's expression darkened. "I heard," she replied. "But enough of this, Arthur. Do no more today; you look worn out. Let us take a picnic into the gardens and enjoy the mild weather. It will begin to rain again soon enough."

Arthur was hesitant. It was true that he was tired, and that was why he wanted his paperwork out of the way – so he could have an early night later on. But with Catherine looking up at him the way that she was, his resistance was futile. "Come on," he eventually replied, "let's just go."

* * *

Together they sprawled in the tall grass at the top of the hill behind Ludlow Castle, their attendants having been told to keep their distance. Arthur lay with his head in Catherine's lap, looking up at the clear blue skies as she read from a small book of verse. He hung on every word, relishing the sound of her Spanish accent as she formed the words, making the stanzas her own. Absent mindedly, he twirled a lock of her auburn hair around his forefinger, letting his thoughts drift with the clouds, or on the back of the occasional falcon that swooped overhead, hunting for its prey.

Time, in these situations, ran in leaps and bounds. These stolen hours they enjoyed in the company of each other where the gift of God they seldom got. "I wish it could stay this way forever," he told her, closing his eyes and turning his face so he could feel the satin and silk skirts brush his cheek. Up there was the place where the wild winds blow. Everything felt free when they were in this, their special place, overlooking the towns and villages. All that could be heard was the rustle of the grasses.

Catherine paused, prodded him gently. "Look," she said, "over there."

He groaned and hauled himself upwards. Following the direction in which she was pointing, he groaned again. They were just tiny black specks on the horizon, but the Royal Standard fluttering in their slipstream was unmistakable. Messengers from Court.

"I suppose we should go and see what they want," he said, getting to his feet and brushing the crushed grass seeds off his breeches and tucking his shirt in properly. He couldn't greet the messengers looking like he'd just got back from a roll in the hay with his Princess. Then, hand in hand, they set off together with their attendants trailing behind them, still keeping their distance.

By the time they reached the front of the Castle, the portcullis had already been raised to admit the messengers. They each dismounted and removed their travelling cloaks, revealing sombre tunics of black mourning. They were not messengers, they were Privy Councillors, and Arthur even recognised three or four of them. Both he and Catherine came to a dead halt in the forecourt, and gripped each other's hand.

Meanwhile, the men all formed a semi-circle around the young couple, each bowing low before one man steps forwards. "The King is dead," he declares loudly, "long live the King."

Arthur flinched, as though the breath had been physically knocked from his body. Catherine held him tight, nails digging into his hand. He was grateful for the small pain, it was just enough to keep him from losing consciousness. His mouth ran dry as the words echoed once more through his consciousness.

"Vivat Rex!" they all chorus as one. "Vivat Rex!"

The leader of the small delegation, Sir Richard Empson, steps forward with his hand held outwards, palm up. There, glittering brightly in the middle of his lamb's wool glove, is the great seal ring, the one passed from King to heir. It was the proof that his father really was dead. Arthur trembled violently as he reached out to take it. Catherine had to steady him, all the while looking up at him wide eyed with worry.

"Take it," she urged, "Your Majesty."

That was too much, too soon. He flinched at being referred to so deferentially by his own wife. But nonetheless, he took the ring, and allowed Empson to slide it onto his finger. It was too big, and would need to be reset. He shuddered all over again at the thought of losing it between now and his return to London.

With the Seal Ring on his finger, Arthur looked back at the Councillors. "You have brought the most grievous, and the most portentous, news to us this day," he addressed them more confidently than he felt. "The Queen and I thank you for it."

It was Catherine's turn to feel the hand of History at her throat, then. She trembled like a leaf on the breeze at being referred to as "Queen." But for her, it was a strong sense of destiny fulfilled. For Arthur, it felt like the first step on the road to an early grave.

However, whatever it was he was feeling at that moment, and whatever lay ahead of him, he knew for certain that Catherine would be with him when he met it. He knew she would be rock upon which his reign would rest, however long it may be.


	2. False Dawn

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Hopefully, this version of the story will be much more fleshed out and developed, so I'm glad people are reading and alerting etc. Usual disclaimers apply, and I own none on this. Reviews would be welcome, thank you.

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**Chapter Two: A False Dawn**

Three days grace was all they were given. Three days in which to pack up their lives, strip Ludlow to the bare walls, and get everything boxed and on the road to London. To the Palace of Richmond, where Arthur would hold Court for the first time as King of England. With both he and Catherine immersed in packing up their own separate households, neither had time to see each other besides that moment when they collapsed, exhausted, in their shared bed with nary a moment to bid "good night, sweetheart" before they fell unconscious.

Then Arthur would awaken in the middle of the night; hot and panicky from half-remembered nightmares, and spend the long hours until dawn lying restless and sleepless until it was time to get up and do it all over again. On top of his inadequate sleep, he did not eat, and when he did those few morsels lay heavily on him until he was sick.

Then, the third day came, dawning bright but chilly. The servants had gone on ahead with their lives in boxes, and only a skeleton staff remained. They took each other by the hand, and stood before the door as it opened to let them out for the very last time.

Arthur turned to Catherine and kissed her cheek. "Are you ready?" he asked.

She looked back at him and smiled: "Yes, I am."

Together they stepped over the threshold; the door closing firmly behind them. The breeze was cool, bracing against their faces as they looked out over the Marches for the final time.

* * *

Henry, Duke of York, looked out of his chamber window and shook his head sadly. "They're still celebrating out there," he observed, glancing over his shoulder at the Duke of Buckingham who reclined leisurely in a seat by the open fire. "He's not even buried yet, and they're celebrating."

Buckingham gave a sudden jolt as though he had been dozing off. "They're just celebrating a new King, not the death of the old one," he lied in reply. The truth was, the people were turning cartwheels. Finally, they think they'll be allowed to keep some of the money they've earned, instead of being compelled to wring their pockets dry into the King's coffers. The actually believed that Arthur would change things; 'bless their wistful naivety,' he thought to himself.

Henry smirks. "Don't coddle me, Edward," he said. "They hated him, and as much as it pains me, I can almost understand why. It's sad, though. They think they're getting someone new; how can they possibly know that Arthur has been raised in the true image of our father?"

Edward Stafford was suddenly alert; they were of the same mind. "I always took your brother to be weak," he said. "Under the thumb of the new Queen."

"Oh, he is. What I mean is, Arthur has all of father's administrative talents, and none of his strength," explained Henry. "Meaning, taxes will stay high; suspicion of everyone and everything will run just as deep, but behind the scenes we will all be under the heel of Catherine of Aragon. If not her, then men like those who surrounded my father. Empson; Dudley, so on and so forth."

"Meaning there will be no place for people like me," conjectured Buckingham, "the Nobility forced to give way to commoners and bureaucrats."

Buckingham paused; sighed deeply and ran an agitated hand through his thick red hair. "Is there even any point in me being here?" he asked. I bow and scrape to your brother for nothing."

Henry removed himself from the window, bored of watching the people come and go, and instead gave Buckingham his full attention. "I can make it worth your while," he earnestly stated, lowering his voice.

With his interest once again revived, Stafford looked over at Henry. "How, exactly?"

Henry took a moment to gather his thoughts. "You and I both know that this is a false dawn for England. Arthur is weak; insecure and a virtual stranger to the people. They've heard his name, and that's it. He's been hidden away in Ludlow, learning how to raise taxes and count his money. Whereas I am known, I am trusted, I am my mother's son, and everyone loved Elizabeth of York," he explained, leaning in close to Buckingham. "If it came to it, I mean if things were that bad for us both, I suppose we could get together and do something about it."

Edward weighed him up carefully. He seemed to be treading a fine, treasonous, path. He was making hints, but shying from coming out with what he really wants. So, Edward decided to give him a nudge, even if he's assessed the situation incorrectly, it'll plant the seed. "Are you proposing I make you King?" he bluntly asked, eyebrow cocked.

Henry reacted like he'd been slapped. "No!" he retorted, wide-eyed. But beneath that veneer of shock, Edward could see the seed of dissent had taken. "What I mean is, if push comes to shove, you and I should … support one another, and make alternative arrangements for the governance of the country together."

Mildly amused, Edward reclined in his seat again, and fixed Henry with a quizzical look. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Henry's brow furrowed. "Well, if we're shoulder to shoulder on everything, Arthur will have no choice but to listen to us."

It was like sibling rivalry gone mad. The Duke of Buckingham had heard enough, and his ducal counterpart had begun to tire him with his adolescent upstart antics. "Well, if ever a day comes and you wish to do something substantive, Your Grace, do send word; you never know what might happen. In the meanwhile, we're off to meet the King and Queen."

"They're here now?" asked Henry.

Buckingham rolled his eyes. "Of course not, but they arrive at the gates of London in the morning. I strongly suggest that we be there together."

With that, he was on his feet and stretching himself out and making his bones crack, a noise that made Henry wince. "We'll be there," replied the Prince.

As Buckingham left, he could feel the eyes of Henry boring into his back. Any second, he thought, and he would be recalled. Sure enough, as soon as his hand was at the door, it happened.

"Buckingham, let's just say it did come to a change at the top," said Henry, as Edward slowly turned around to look back into the room. "You wouldn't necessarily be against it, would you?"

Buckingham smiled. "That would depend, wouldn't it?"

"On what?"

The question followed Buckingham out of the room, but was cut off as he shut the door, pretending he hadn't heard anything. The Prince, he had decided, would benefit from some time left on his own to stew in his own broiling, mutinous juices.

* * *

Wherever Arthur and Catherine went, the people came out in force to watch as they passed. Their carriage was soon over-flowing from bouquets of flowers that were passed through the window to Catherine. They were a passing curiosity that had imposed on the lives of their subjects, but they didn't seem to mind. They even queued in the rain, braving the cold winds, and still managing to look lively as the Royals passed them by in the safety of their carriage.

Arthur, however, found the journey tiring. Life in transit was taking its toll on his temper as well as his health. "Thank God we're almost there," he groaned, resting his head in Catherine's lap as he lay back across the seat, "much longer and my nerves will break."

The corner of Catherine's mouth twitched in amusement. "Then sit up and look out of the window," she said, pulling back the curtain so he could see.

Winching himself up on his elbows, Arthur could just see over the door frame. They had just crested a hill, and sloping down on the other side was the city of London. The mid-morning sun spread even light, showing off the winding cobbled streets, the lazy, meandering Thames and the blots of houses spreading out as far as the eye could see. Hives of citizens were already lining the streets to welcome home the new King and Queen of England. It was a title to which Arthur did not think he would ever become accustomed.

"Home," he whispered. He had been born in Winchester, much further south than London. But London was the place he remembered growing up. It was there he formed his earliest memories, learned to read at his mother's side, and welcomed each of his brothers and sisters to the world. London was his real home, even before Wales – where he'd been since the age of ten. He sat up properly, and kissed Catherine firmly on the cheek. "Welcome to your new Kingdom," he said.

Parliament had been dissolved, just as the Privy Council had been disbanded, as soon as Henry VII had died. Naturally, each and every former member of both bodies were at the gates of London to greet Arthur to present rich gifts and help ease their way back into their old jobs. As soon as they arrived, they stepped out of the carriage together, grateful for the presentation of ceremonial robes of crimson velvet lined with ermine. Another brought two fine horses, caparisoned and bridled in cloth of gold.

Then, a young man all blue eyes and golden curls, stepped forward with an older, broader, red haired man. It took Arthur only a few moments to recognise his brother and the Duke of Buckingham.

"Harry?" he asked, raising the young man before him. "It cannot be you!" At his side, Catherine bristled.

"Your Majesty, it is I, your humble and obedient subject," he introduced himself, smiling broadly, "and your brother."

"Please, just brother," said Arthur, pulling Henry into an embrace.

Henry drew away, gesturing to the red haired man at his side. "This is his grace, the Duke of Buckingham. He bears gifts from us both to you, and my dear sister, Queen Catherine."

When Buckingham stepped forwards, he held out a large casket which he opened to reveal two gold coronets on a purple, velvet cushion. The crowd of onlookers gathered around, watching the family reunion while sighing exaggerated "ahhs" at the spectacle. Arthur took the casket with the coronets, and held them up for Catherine to inspect. She, however, simply smiled serenely, and afforded the two Dukes an approving nod.

As soon as London opened its gates, the rest of the journey was conducted by barge along the Thames. Catherine and Arthur sailed ahead of the rest of the nobility, with Henry and Buckingham close behind. All along the route, the people gathered and cheered as they passed. The London reception soon turned out to be the warmest, as well as the most elaborate, with fireworks set off and choir boys from Winchester and Eton singing Te Deums to the heavens.

There was a brief stop at Baynard's Castle, where Lady Margaret Beaufort was collected, and added to the Royal Barge alongside Arthur and Catherine. Although a small and slight woman, the Countess was elderly and frail, the death of her son having taken its toll, she still needed much assistance in climbing on board. Once settled, however, she was soon at ease and chatting eagerly with Catherine.

"I never dreamed I would live to see my Grandson made King," she enthused as they bobbed gently on the afternoon tide. "Not after the live I lived; everything we went through to get here." She looked all around her, taking it all in as if in a dream.

Arthur leaned over and placed a hand on her arm. "We're all right now, Grandmother," he assured her, while Catherine indulged the elderly Countess with a benign smile. "You've played your part well."

Remembering how Lady Margaret had been keen to take over many of the old Queen's functions, Catherine added: "You can enjoy a very comfortable retirement once our Coronation is done. You can go wherever you wish, and have whatever you wish."

Arthur shot her a warning look over his Lady Margaret's head, to which Catherine merely shrugged.

"You know," continued Margaret, as if there had been no interruption, "I am more tired these days. I should like to retire to Somerset, where I was born. But since your father..." her words trailed off, as though she couldn't bring herself to say the word 'died'. She wrapped her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders and stared off into the middle distance. "Yes, I think we are secure now."

* * *

Gratefully, they deposited Lady Margaret at Westminster Abbey. Arthur got up to assist her personally, but was soon waved away by a flock of attendants who swept down from the riverbank to help. He watched as she was shuffled away like a wrinkled old toddler, and before she vanished from sight, she looked back over her shoulder, and waved goodbye. Arthur responded with a small smile, unsure as to whether she could even see it.

The rest of the journey to the Tower of London was short and uneventful. In the absence of any more elderly relatives, all that remained was to get Catherine and he lodged safely in the Royal Apartments inside the White Tower until their Coronation. The date had already been set for the 24th June, and there was a mountain of work to get through before then. It seemed impossible to Arthur that everything would be done in time, even with Catherine taking on the bulk of it leaving him free to grow into his new role as King of England.

Their apartments were perfectly adequate, but on a smaller scale to which they were accustomed. But they didn't mind. As soon as they arrived, all they wanted to do was eat, get the fire going, and then crawl into their bed. They were both exhausted from the long, arduous journey on rough roads, and then the pomp and ceremony of their procession through London – and that was just the informal one.

However, that night, as Arthur threw a protective arm around Catherine's shoulder and prepared to sink into sleep, she turned to face him. "You will watch him, won't you?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Henry," she elaborated. "He seems to be very friendly with the Duke of Buckingham."

Arthur sighed. "Well, Buckingham is England's only other Duke; they're the highest ranking noblemen in -"

Catherine cut him off. "Then you should watch them both."

Exasperated, Arthur sat up and looked down at her where she continued to lie. "My father treated everyone with suspicion and contempt. Look where that landed him? He was barely sane when he died, if the reports are true."

"If, the reports are true," retorted Catherine, emphasising the 'if'. "Whatever your father was, he was a clever and shrewd man. Do not dismiss him so easily or you may find yourself in danger from the least expected quarters."

He snorted derisively. "You're worse than your own father and mine put together!"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I jest!" he protested at the sound of her voice. "I am sorry; I meant no offence. But I do not want to act precipitously like my father did. I want to give everyone an equal chance and not freeze out my potential friends. Is that so bad?"

Keen to diffuse the argument before it had a chance to blossom, Catherine held up an arm, gesturing for him to lie back down. "I spoke out of turn," she said, encouraging him to let the matter go by willingly shouldering the fault for it. "We're both tired, and neither of us want to close our day on a disagreement."

And nor did he. Arthur re-assumed the position he was about to take before the interruption, and nuzzled her thick mane of auburn hair as he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. The River Pageant

**Author's Note:** Thank you to all who have read; reviewed; favourited and alerted this story – it means a lot. Usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews are gratefully received.

* * *

**Chapter Three: The River Pageant.**

It was the calm before the storm, and Arthur wanted to make the most of it. The night before their four day coronation ceremony began, he and Catherine lay curled up beside the open fire in their apartments within the Tower nursing goblets of warmed, spiced wine. Their staff had been banished to the outer-chambers – on hand if needed, but affording them the privacy they would not enjoy again for at least another week. Arthur reclined in Catherine's arms, letting his head rest in her shoulder.

"I'm sorry I've been so short with you," he said, rolling his eyes almost to the back of his head to get her in his sights. "It's just … everything."

They had spent the last few weeks overseeing preparations for the biggest Coronation in England's long and colourful History. Catherine understood however. She leaned down, planted a kiss on top of his head.

"Shush, now," she chided, but with a smile in her voice. "The sooner this is over, the happier we will all be."

How right she was. They had been measuring cloth, arranging choirs, making sure countless Peers, Barons, Lords, Earls, Bishops, Dukes, Marquis and God alone knew who else all had the correct robes and coronets. Then there was the allocation of the roles for the ceremonies and feasts, making sure everyone had something to do according to their rank; anyone missed out was liable to cause mass offence and it wasn't the start that Arthur or Catherine desired. Their reign, after all, was meant to be the dawn of a golden age. A second coming, almost. As highly anticipated as their glorious moment of crowning was, they would just as happy when it the deed was finally done.

Arthur lifted his head off Catherine's shoulder and rolled over onto his front, bracing his knees in the thick Turkish rug on which they lay. He wet his lips and leaned in for a kiss, his hand automatically straying towards her right breast. Catherine hesitated for just a moment as she looked deep into his eyes, breathing him in as she returned his kiss. Already, her free hand was unlacing her bodice as her other snaked around Arthur's neck, pulling him closer.

"Shall we?" she asked.

The question was rhetorical. They entwined their arms around each other, caressing and nipping as they went. But just as Arthur reached up Catherine's skirts, the door to their apartments opened, Maria De Salinas stood at the threshold of the room stunned and rooted to the spot. Blushing deeply, she looked away and cleared her throat.

"Her Ladyship the Countess of Richmond has arrived, Your Graces. She would like an audience with the King and Queen."

Both their heads bumped together; their groans of frustration indiscernible from each other. But, before they hastily made themselves decent, Arthur leaned forwards and whispered in her ear: "later," he said, "just you wait!"

Catherine smoothed down the front of her skirts while Nicholas Carew, one of Arthur's Grooms, set about arranging chairs by the fire. Some wine was fetched from the cellars, and the best goblets laid out. Only once everything was in place did Arthur and Catherine give the signal for the Countess to be showed inside. She appeared moments later, balanced on the arm of Maria de Salinas, until Arthur quickly crossed the room and took her place.

"Careful, Grandmother," he said, tenderly escorting her to her seat.

"Lady Margaret, how lovely to see you," said Catherine, stooping to kiss the old lady's cheek as she settled in her seat.

She was still in her Nun's habit, but for the ceremony in the morning she would be wearing her finest topped with a gold coronet. Lady Margaret waited until Arthur and Catherine were also seated before she spoke: "I won't keep you long," she promised, not noticing the fleeting relief in either of their faces. "I just wanted to wish you both well now because I don't think I shall have a chance to before the Crowning."

"But, you will be there, won't you?" asked Arthur, leaning forwards so he could hear her better. Even her voice was weaker now.

"Of course," she replied, "but I remember your father's Coronation, and if it's anything like that one; well, I won't get a chance to see either of you."

"Thank you, Margaret. But you really shouldn't have disturbed yourself on our account," said Catherine. She then poured the wine herself, seeing as their attendants had disappeared again. "You do know that both Arthur and I will gladly come to you at any point during the ceremonies. Just send a servant down to us if you want us."

Margaret frowned. "It wouldn't be proper!" she retorted sharply. "Anyway, you two should enjoy your day, because it won't come again."

Arthur smiled as he recalled an old story his father once told him. "Grandmother, you aren't going to cry all through our Coronation, are you?"

Margaret's face lit up in a bright smile. "Oh no," she replied, "this really is cause for celebration this time."

Catherine frowned. "And the late King's Coronation was not?"

"Has Arthur not told you much?" asked Margaret, turning to look at her Granddaughter in law. "Things were so very different then. I knew my son's reign would be challenged; that the wars were not over, and he would have to go into battle again. I thought it would be the death of him, so I wept; I wept so much I can barely remember the Crowning."

Catherine placed a hand on her arm. "Things will be different now," she assured her. "The late King restored peace, stability and prosperity to this Realm, and no one – not even the greatest of pretenders – can ever take that away from him."

"Catherine is correct," Arthur chimed in. "Father has laid a strong foundation for Cate and I. From here, we can only get stronger. So, no more tears."

Margaret coloured, whether through wine or emotion neither could tell. She reached out, stroked both their faces. "May God bless you both."

As soon as Lady Margaret's attendants had arrived to take her back to Windsor, Catherine and Arthur made a beeline for the bed.

"Now, where were we?" asked Catherine, pulling his shirt over his head.

He grinned wickedly. "I'm not sure," he replied, hoarsely. "You're going to have to remind me."

He nipped at the laces holding her bodice together and gave a tug firm enough the undo the bow. She fell back against the mattress, pulling her down on top of him and trapping him in her thighs. "I think we were about here," she laughed, kissing him again and raking her nails down his back.

Then, another knock at the door, and Maria de Salinas was hovering just out of sight. "His Grace, the Duke of York, would like an audience-"

"NO!" they both chorused in reply, cutting across her and sending her scurrying back into the outer-chambers. They ignored Prince Henry's angry, indignant, protests because this was their last chance to be alone, to be selfish, for as far as they could see. Neither of them were sorry.

* * *

"He refused to see me – his own brother," Henry snapped as he and the Duke of Buckingham sat atop their horses. They were on London Bridge, over looking the river pageant as the participants finalised the details and completed their final dry run of the event before the real thing began at noon that day. The sun shone, though, Henry was grateful for that at least. He was sure they were both meant to be doing something, but that couldn't have been further from his mind at that moment.

Buckingham turned to look at him. "So, there's no word on him letting you take over the Council of the North?"

"Nothing. That's what I wanted to ask him. All I wanted was a yes or no, and he wouldn't even give me time for that."

For a moment, Buckingham distracted himself with fixing his gloves, but deep in his mind, the wheels were slowly turning. "In name, you are already head of the Council-"

"I've been that since I was a child; since I was first made Duke of York. Now I want to actually run the North in deed as well as name. Is that so much to ask?"

Below them, a splash cut across their conversation as a choir boy from Eton took a tumble from one of the Guildhall's barges. The commotion followed by the angry shouts of one of the school masters and another splash as another man dives in to rescue the fallen child. It was only then that Henry realised he was meant to be co-ordinating these people.

"Isn't that your job?" Buckingham pointedly reminded him.

Henry snorted. "No, my job is at the head of the Council of the North. Look, if the King refuses to let me do this, I will need your help."

The corners of Buckingham's mouth twitched into a smile which he quickly suppressed. "This again," he remarked, rather amused.

The fallen choir boy has been hauled to dry land, he sat up gingerly and coughed a lungful of the dirty water over his Master's shoes and received a slap round the head in return. But, he was alive, no thanks to those who were meant to organising the pageant. Buckingham turned his attention back to Henry.

"You seem to be struggling to organise a few floats down the Thames for just one morning," he pointed out, "what makes you think you could run the North of England?"

"I don't know," Henry snapped back. "I've never been allowed to. I'm going to see the King."

Buckingham was about to protest, but Henry spurred his horse and was gone within seconds. He gave up, but still watched as the Prince rode off into the distance, towards the Tower of London.

* * *

Arthur paused by the door of the Privy Chamber and watched as Catherine's ladies put the finishing touches to her dress. He couldn't see much. Just the gold coronet set in her loose, auburn curls, and snatches of the cream, satin gown edged with gold and silver threads. Maria de Salinas, along with several others, helped carry a long red velvet train. He had seen only one other woman wear that train, and that had been his mother, a long time ago. It was one worn only by the Queens of England.

It seemed to take forever. He was up and dressed within an hour or so. But, he supposed, women were different. Even their everyday dress seemed to be a military operation that had to be carefully coordinated weeks in advance. But, as the women finally parted, and Catherine was fully revealed to him, every minute of their labours was displayed to its full effect. Her bodice was intricately decorated with her devices and his, dragons piercing pomegranates, bordered with full colour Tudor Roses, all down the hems they interwove delicately, their green stalks wrapped around each other. The train set off the cream of the skirts and sleeves, the cream set off her pale skin and auburn hair.

It was a full minute before he could even speak. All he wanted to do was stand and look at her, bathed in the warm afternoon sun.

"You look stunning," he told her, closing the gap between them and taking her face in his hands. Slowly, he leaned down and kissed her rosebud lips. "My Queen."

Catherine smiled, her blue-grey eyes twinkling in the reflected sunlight. "My King," she replied with a coy laugh, quickly stifled by another kiss.

They both could hear the crowds gathering outside; lining the route of the river pageant. Every so often a firework exploded prematurely, bringing cat calls from the restive populace who were anxious to see their new King and Queen. They had been waiting long enough, but Arthur decided they could wait a little longer. Prince Henry, however, refused to wait. He appeared, unannounced and uninvited in the door way that Arthur had just vacated, his jaw set firm and defiant.

Catherine didn't turn a hair. She turned to face her brother in law and fixed him with a shrewd eye. "You have business so important it cannot afford us the common courtesy of an announcement?" she asked him, her haughtiness making up for her lack of height – she reached only Henry's chest.

He looked back down at her through narrowed eyes. "Seeing as I was refused an audience last night, I thought now might be a better time."

Arthur stepped forwards and placed himself between the two of them before violence could break out. "The Queen is quite correct, Harry," he said, trying to calm Catherine without setting his brother off. "We are quite busy enough-"

"Well this won't take long," Henry cut across him, causing Catherine to bristle. "I want only your assurance that after the Coronation, you will hand over the Council of the North to me."

Thoroughly taken aback, Arthur laughed uneasily in attempt to diffuse the situation. "Harry, the North needs more than one person," he explained.

"Out of the question!" Catherine exclaimed. "You are a boy, and the North is the gateway to the south. Take that and you've taken the country. You cannot do this alone, not until you are of maturity."

Henry was livid. A scarlet blush stole into his pale face, his eyes flashing angrily for just a fleeting moment. "That is not your decision to make, madam."

"Henry!" Arthur slapped him down quickly. "The Queen-" he drew out the title, reminding his brother sharply of who out-ranked who - "is correct. You are too young, yet. When you are of your majority; when you are nineteen summers, come back to me then and we will see how things stand."

A long moment of silence followed, during which Henry's gaze shot between Arthur and Catherine and back again. His jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his neck. He was on the point of combustion, to the casual observer. "Fine," he finally stated, bluntly. "Have it your way."

Without further ado, Henry turned and strode purposefully from the room leaving behind him a shocked silence. Arthur watched, listening as Henry's footsteps receded down the outer-gallery and out of their lives. As soon as it was safe, he let himself sink into the nearest seat with his head in his hands. He hadn't even got the crown on his head, and already he felt as though he was alienating those who he relied on to support him.

Catherine's anger had dissipated, but she then watched Arthur with concern etched in her face. Slowly, she cross the room to where he sat, slumped forwards, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing, my lord. He had to be told," she whispered in his ear, bending down to kiss him, "and now he needs to be watched."

The words jolted Arthur, who jerked upright, looking at Catherine as though about to argue. But the resistance drained from his expression, as though it were slowly dawning on him that she was right. That he really could trust no one, not even his own brother. Once, he had railed against his father's fears; condemned the man for locking up people he once counted as friends – even one who had fought alongside him at Bosworth. It was only at that moment did Arthur realise that he really could trust no one; that, like his father before him, his faith in humanity was going to be chipped away slowly for the rest of his life.

"Cate," he whispered low, so that only she could hear him, "I can't do this."

"For the love of God, Arthur," Catherine replied, "our whole lives have been on a pre-ordained path to this moment in our lives. Nothing and no one can take that away. Not even ourselves."

She got up and held out her hand, which he took only after a long pause. The Pageant was due to begin, and their people were waiting for them. He was far from certain, but it had to be done. He even managed a smile by the time they reached the barge waiting for them outside. The weather was good, so God had showed his favour already. Before they boarded, however, he circled her waist and squeezed her tight. "I love you," he spoke softly into her ear, making her shiver. "Don't ever forget it."


	4. Crown of Thorns

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot to me. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Crown of Thorns**

Prince Harry sent up a silent prayer of thanks after finding the corridors of Richmond Palace empty. The sensation was a strange one: normally thronging with Courtiers, the air full of the sounds of voices, petitioners and entertainers; the silence itself seemed to resonate. The halls seemed bigger; the galleries longer. He could almost feel the blank eyed portraits watching him as he passed, in lieu of the flesh and blood human swarm that normally occupied the spaces between the fortified walls.

He stopped, shivered as the echo of his footsteps receded down the gallery, and took a minute to pull himself together. He did not have time to dwell on the emptiness of his normally thriving home. When he set off again, he did so at a pace and did not break his stride until he reached the Duke of Buckingham's extensive chamber, close to the Royal Apartments themselves. There were no servants around to announce him; not even a trusted retainer. Henry had to let himself in, inching the door open cautiously.

On the opposite side, he found apartments that were almost as luxurious as those of the King and Queen. The walls were adorned with fine tapestries showing biblical and allegorical scenes, all woven in rich fabrics. The decanters were gold and silver, polished almost to a glow in the dull light from the still shuttered windows. In the center of the room, standing on one of the fine Turkish rugs before an open fire, stood the bulk of the Duke himself.

Buckingham's face split into a knowing smile as he turned to look at the Prince.

"So," he greeted him, "you came, then?"

"Looks that way," replied Henry. "We need to talk."

Buckingham did not seem in the least bit surprised. He casually gestured Henry into the room and walked over to an oak drinks cabinet where he proceeded to pour them both a healthy measure of spirits. He handed one over to the Prince. "Then speak," he suggested, pointing to two chairs at a cards table near the fire.

"She vetoed me," said Henry, taking his place at the small table, "and he just let her."

Once Edward Stafford had settled at the second seat, he sipped his drink, extrapolating on what the Prince had said. "This is about the Council of the North?" he asked, but without waiting for an answer, he added: "Do you think they're shunting you out of the way?"

"Of course they are!" Harry retorted. "They fear me, Edward. She is barren, any fool can see it, and while they have no heir, I am the greatest threat to their throne. Is it any wonder that Spanish brick wants me out of the way?"

"So, you must strike or be stricken yourself?" Asked Edward, the corner of his thin lip twitched into a smile that he swiftly suppressed.

Henry's gaze dropped to the untouched contents of his glass, and swirled the contents around. "That's a rather apt way to put it, Your Grace," he replied at length, before downing his drink as if he suddenly needed the fortification. "You know I can't effectively strike without you on my side."

"I don't suppose you can," replied Stafford, leading Henry down the path he wants. "You take me into treason, Your Grace. The stakes are high for us both, but at least you can hope to escape with your life if this goes wrong."

"I know that!" Henry is quick to point out. "But I can make it worth your while; you know I can."

"Oh, I know that," the Duke smiles as he gets up to fetch the bottle of spirits for a refill. "In return for my services – and, of course, a favourable outcome – you take my daughter as your bride."

Henry looked up with a start, his brow creasing into a frown. "Surely that is not all you want?"

Edward glances back at him from over his shoulder. "That'll do for now," he says. "We can discuss it further after the Coronation. Now, a toast to seal our pact, and then I must go."

Henry got to his feet. "The Coronation isn't for another three hours. Why leave so soon?"

"I must go to a physician; I have an old headache I need to be rid of."

* * *

Their moment had arrived. The sun had graced the occasion with its presence, warming the crowds who had thronged the city streets to watch the coronation procession pass. Sand had been spread along the route to cushion the horse's hooves; they pulled litters upholstered with cloth of gold and silver. The Thames, cleansed and glittering flowed placidly by untroubled by any strong winds or high tides.

Catherine and Arthur watched it all from the head of the procession as it snaked through the streets of London. Catherine was in her element as she waved and beamed at the people, stopping to accept poseys of flowers from children who had lined the route. Arthur, meanwhile, looked pale and wan under the bright daylight. He alternated between tugging at a loose thread in his crimson cloak or fidgeting with the ring on his finger, twisting it around in nervous agitation. To still him, Catherine placed her right hand over his. Arthur responded by clasping it tightly, and breathing a sigh of relief as Westminster Abbey finally came into view.

"We're here, Cate," he whispered in her ear.

He looked over his shoulder, making sure his grandmother was all right in the litter behind their own. She smiled back at him, giving him a small wave as she did so. By the looks of things, the ceremonies had thus far lived up to her notoriously high expectations.

The royal standard was raised on the flagpole, signifying the arrival of the King and Queen. It was met with a twenty-one gun salute from the battlements of the Tower of London. As the blast echoed out across the city, an expectant silence followed in their wake. The horses drew still, and Arthur and Catherine stepped down from their litter in unison. Their attendants materialised to smooth down their velvet and ermine coronation robes. As they did so, Arthur took Catherine's hand, and standing together before the carpeted entrance of Westminster, he looked up at the far-reaching spires and bell towers. Silent at that moment, in no more than an hour's time they would be tolling out the message that he and Catherine were anointed and crowned. He tried not to think of all those who had trod this fateful path before him.

All Kings wanted their reign to be unique, each one wanted to be a God among men. Some of them were: Edward III, Henry V and even his grandfather, Edward IV. Others, like his great-uncle, Henry VI, had been abysmal failures. That was not the moment to dwell on any of them, and Arthur knew that. However, he also knew that History had a strangle hold on him. He was about to be marched off to receive a crown of thorns; his to bear until the end of his days.

"Arthur, it is time."

Catherine's voice was soft in his ear; he turned to see if she really had spoken, or whether he had simply imagined it. Nevertheless, she was looking back at him with clear eyes and her chin tilted up. He found it within himself to smile.

"Come on then," he replied, deliberately sounding like they were doing nothing more than attending a regular Church service. "Let's get this done."

It was mercifully cool inside the Abbey. The air was scented with incense, beeswax candles burned on tall stands that lined the aisle between the pews, where the nobility packed the seats. The whole place hushed into a collective silence as soon as Catherine and Arthur appeared in the doorway. As one, the whole crowd turned to look at them, a small sigh rippling through them at the vision of the Queen in white beneath her velvet and ermine.

Arthur kept his eye on the Altar, where the Archbishop of Canterbury was already waiting for them. The two thrones were set up high on the dais, but he could not see the Crown of St. Edward anywhere. He and Catherine exchanged one last glance, and together they stepped forwards down the aisle. It seemed the longest aisle in any Church in any country to Arthur at that moment. But he trained his eyes on the Altar, and blanked the crowds who peered at them as they passed. It was like being under a magnifying glass.

The closer they got to the Altar, the thicker the smell of the incense. It made Arthur's eyes water by the time he and Catherine reached the dais. Once there, they knelt before the altar, where an attendant divested them of their robes. Archbishop Warham immediately began intoning deeply in Latin, incomprehensible to anyone but him. When the time came, a phial of sacred oil was produced and blessed. That done, Arthur lowered the neck of his shirt, baring his left breast where the sign of the cross was made with oil; the gesture repeated on his brow. Once Catherine had also been anointed with the oil, they were raised up again by the Archbishop, and took their seats before the entire congregation.

They each took their turn to swear the Coronation Oath; each swearing to uphold the State, the welfare of the people and the Church. The air grew heavy with the solemnity of the occasion. The first bloodless Coronation England had seen in almost a century – not even a peasant crushed against the crash barriers had marred their day. The moment was not lost on Arthur, who shifted his gaze as the Archbishop vanished to the left and reappeared moments later bearing the Crown of St. Edward. He took a sharp breath as it glittered in the candlelight; bore high above Warham's head.

Warham paused while Prince Henry and their Cousin, Henry Courtenay appeared, each bearing a rod of state. They knelt as they handed them over to Catherine and Arthur. Arthur took it in his left hand, and crossed his chest with it. Meanwhile, the same two kinsmen were handed the orb, which Catherine and Arthur took in their right hands. All that was left was the crown.

"With this, the crown of St. Edward, I Crown you Arthur, King of England and of France, and Lord of Ireland."

For just a fraction of a second the crown rested on his head, before it was whipped away again, replaced by a more lightweight coronet. Then, the Archbishop's voice called out again:

"With this, the crown of St. Edward I do crown you, Catherine, Queen of England and of France, and Lady of Ireland."

Then, it was done. They were crowned. The Archbishop stood back at the sidelines so the assembled crowds could have an unimpeded view of their new King and Queen; crowned and anointed.

* * *

"Thank God it's nearly done!" Arthur sighed audibly as he sank back in his seat at the head table of the banqueting Hall of Windsor Castle. However, he had been undergoing something of a second wind since the feast began. Catherine, on the other hand, was beginning to nod off. She had been an alert and stoic model of duty and self-discipline for the last four days. But now, her last vestiges of energy were draining away; leaning left with her head on his shoulder. "Is a dance out of the question?" he asked as her eyelids drooped.

She lifted her head, and directed a gentle jab in the ribs. "Funny!" she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes.

Nonetheless, she righted her posture and looked down the hall. Tables were filled with the rank and file nobility of England, the most important at the head tables and declining in stature from there. The elite, the two dukes and the marquis' were chosen to serve the King and Queen. The musicians were situated on the upper balconies were everyone would be able to hear their music drifting downwards regardless of their rank.

Arthur turned to his right, where just one other person accompanied them at the head table on the dais. But she was not beneath the cloth of state.

"Are you all right, Grandmother?" he asked the elderly Countess.

If the last four days of ritual and rite had been hard on them, he dreaded to think what it could do to a woman of Margaret Beaufort's age. To his mild surprise, however, she was spritely and in good spirits. She nibbled at some game bird, and had a small glass of Claret to wash it down with. Her dancing days were long over, but she smiled at those whose dancing days were still very much in their prime. True to her promise, she wasn't shedding any tears.

"Your father would be so proud," she said, leaning a little towards him but keeping her eye on the crowds of dancers and diners. "Such a beautiful day, too. You were lucky." Then she turned to him, looking between he and Catherine. "Why are you not leading the dance?" she asked.

He was about to protest, but Catherine cut him off.

"I was just asking the same thing, My Lady of Richmond," she said, a little over-brightly. She jumped to her feet, then, and tugged his arm. "Come on, my lord, what are you waiting for?"

He tried to scowl at her, but could only laugh. However, before he left, he gave his grandmother a peck on the cheek. "I'll be back soon, Grandmother," he assured her. "Get a refill off Buckingham while we're away."

"I will," she replied, flapping her hand towards the dance. "Now go, shoo!"

They were both exhausted from the solemnities, but they giggled like schoolchildren as Arthur led the way to the head of the dance. With the King and Queen taking to the floor, the musicians struck up a lively Galliard, a new form of dance from the Continent. Laughter filled the air as they were joined by Princess Mary – Arthur's own Sister, who he had barely had time to speak to since he became King. They fitted around each other perfectly, with Charles Brandon collaborating the Princess.

"This is better, isn't it?" he called into Catherine's ear as he picked her up and swept her around.

"Much!" she called back, landing deftly on her feet.

Beside them, the Earl of Surrey, Thomas Howard, danced with the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, Elizabeth Stafford. Catherine nodded to them. "They're to marry," she informed him.

"I hope they'll be very happy together," Arthur replied, but he was more interested in the dance. This had been their first opportunity for fun since before the death of the old King, and it was feeling good again. He clasped her tight as the music faded away, and kissed her deeply. "I love you, my Queen."

Catherine looked up at him, resting her cheek against his chest where she could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart. "I love you too, my King."

He took her by the hand and led her through the next dance – thankfully for them, it was a slow one and sedate. They had an excuse to hold each other close, feel their bodies almost fused as they moved about the floor. All eyes were on them, but they had truly lost themselves in each other. But all too soon, that had ended, too. Truly exhausted now, Arthur took her by the hand and led her back to the dais where they could have a drink and catch their breath.

"Even your Grandmother has had enough now, Arthur," remarked Catherine as they passed a sleeping Margaret Beaufort.

They took their seats, and Arthur turned to look at her. She was slouched to the right, her hand still lightly resting on the stem of her glass. He frowned; but even Countesses slouched thus when they were unconscious. He decided to let her rest there until it was time to go, and turned back to Catherine.

"This is it then," he said, glancing back towards the crowds. "We really are King and Queen now."

They held each other's gaze, and Catherine nodded. "Really are."

It felt exciting, daunting, dangerous and impossible. It was something they were born to do, but sometimes wondered if it would ever happen. Now it was happening, and they both were feeling the weight of all that expectation and all that history upon their young shoulders. It was a burden they shared, though, and for that Arthur could never show his appreciation enough. Catherine reached out and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from his face, a tender gesture that sent a thrill of longing through him.

"It's time to go," he said. "We can leave now, and no one will notice."

Catherine grinned. "Best wake your grandmother, first."

Arthur had almost forgotten she was there. He turned in his seat and gave her a gentle shake to which she did not respond. Only her hand fell away from the glass, bringing it crashing to the ground at her feet. He paused, looking at her intently.

"Cate," he said, "Cate there's something wrong."

Catherine stood up again, leaning over him to see better. "Lady Margaret," she called, but again, no response.

Arthur glanced at the crowds, making sure no one was looking. The musicians were reaching a crescendo, and the couples were immersed in their dancing. Others were still feasting, and some were asleep under the tables, clearly peaking too early. Quickly, Arthur turned back to his Grandmother, and grasped her wrist to feel for her pulse. "She's dead," he said, feeling nothing but her cooling skin.


End file.
